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It is an endless game, and I am a player with losses and wins. I've lost when I gave into destruction; brick by brick, I've won, and piece by piece, I was torn. Ever seeking the magic of loneliness. This cruelty is a disease, a shame of not belonging. I am the daughter of the sea, inevitably flawed by madness and waves. Swim through the thunder and swim through the bliss, and you'd still never know what calmness I seek. Spare me from dream ideals and cunningness—I am just a writer digging her own grave. Although I talk out of grief, I am still gentle with these lips. I'd be fooling myself if I were in no gratitude that I am a mortal with a desire to be held. I do not walk in beauty; in case you missed, be not in awe. I am just a woman sick in the head.